


In Captivity

by takadainmate



Category: Aubrey-Maturin Series - Patrick O'Brian
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-16
Updated: 2010-12-16
Packaged: 2020-12-17 16:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21057521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takadainmate/pseuds/takadainmate
Summary: Jack and Stephen are captured.





	In Captivity

**Author's Note:**

> I like to think of this as pre-Jack/Stephen. Gratuitous and unapologetic h/c.
> 
> Originally written for the [](https://perfect-duet.livejournal.com/profile)[**perfect_duet**](https://perfect-duet.livejournal.com/) community's Christmas Calendar.

Jack had woken up in many vile, unsavoury places before, often not remembering by what means he had arrived there, or even where he was, so regaining consciousness to the evil smell of rot and piss and an aching head was not something that Jack found unduly troubling. It was cold, wherever he was. The floor underneath him felt damp and hard, his hand laying in a puddle of something Jack thought it best not to think too closely upon. The sleeve of his jacket was sodden.

Somewhere close by there came the ringing sound of metal striking against metal, and from even closer gentle breathing. A very familiar breathing, and a very familiar warmth against his legs and this was the first indication that something was not right.

In general, it did not happen that when Jack regained consciousness, Stephen was lying there beside him. Or from the weight of it, lying across his legs.

Opening his eyes, Jack found there was little light to see by, and that what light there was felt too bright, too painful, and he had to turn away. The movement made his stomach uneasy and a stabbing ache to erupt somewhere behind his eyes. It was a familiar feeling, not of the consequences of a night's excessive drinking, but of having had some blunt object swung against his head. It was of very great concern that Jack could not remember who he must have been fighting with, for now he could feel the discomfort in his arms and across his back which could only have come from fending off blows and attempting to land his own. His fingers ached, and the knuckles, and Jack hoped at least he had done some damage to his attackers.

As was his vision, the memories were also unclear, but Jack was sure there had been several, and it had been dark, and he had been trying to prevent Stephen from-

_Stephen_.

It was one thing to come after Jack, but quite another to take Stephen. Of all that had happened that he couldn't remember, he could very clearly recall thugs setting upon Stephen with a long knife. It had been his friend's cry of pain that had spurred Jack to lash out in the most violent of ways.

And now here they were, held in some dank dungeon. Jack could see the rusting bars of their prison even in the poor light, and there were old chains bolted to the walls as though they had found themselves in some medieval castle. Stephen was not awake, and Jack became quite worried.

Pushing himself up to sitting was painful, pulling at his cold, bruised muscles, but Jack had to see to Stephen.

He called, "Stephen," insistently, yet quietly for he did not know if their captors might be close by. He did not want to chance their presence before he had been assured Stephen was well.

Stephen's head still lay heavily on Jack's legs and it was an awkward thing to lean over to him to try and see his face. Jack touched his fingers to Stephen's cheek and found him cold. He did not respond to Jack's calls and Jack was sure he had never seen his friend sleep so heavily before, but it was not a peaceful sleep. From what Jack could see, Stephen's brow was pulled down in pain or suffering or some remembrance of something unpleasant. It made him uneasy.

"Stephen, you must wake up," he tried, putting a hand cautiously on Stephen's shoulder and shaking him gently.

Jack did not know how much time they would have alone and he did not like how much of what was happening he didn't understand.

Even more, he did not like the way his hand came away wet and warm from Stephen's shoulder, and thick, so Jack was sure it could be nothing but blood.

"Oh, Stephen," Jack said, and wished for greater light than the sorry glow from a lamp lit somewhere further down the corridor on the other side of the prison bars. There was a window covered with a grill high up in the stone walls, but it was still night outside and there was no moon. He can't have been asleep for long, Jack considered, for it had already been late into the night when he and Stephen had been set upon.

There was neither well-known, comforting smell nor sound of the sea, so they could not be in port, and the strange, empty quiet told Jack there were not in any English prison. Nor any usual gaol at all. He hoped, he very much hoped, that Stephen remembered how they'd come to be here. Recalling only brawling with foul-smelling vagabonds, Jack was loathe to think he was to blame for getting Stephen into this kind of trouble.

His friend had never been what some people might term pretty, but in the shadows and the half-light he looked ghastly, and Jack did not want to think it, but half-dead. Stephen was the physician. He was the one who healed others, always confident and adept, and Jack imagined- _hoped_\- he could also heal himself. Pulling the fabric of Stephen's jacket and shirt aside where they had been sliced clean through, Jack saw the depth of the cut there, raw and still seeping blood. Jack had seen worse, sure, but in this bleak place, with dark, unclean water running down the walls, without a friendly face anywhere in sight, or the loving feel of the sea beneath him, it seemed so much more serious. More threatening.

Afraid to touch, but thinking he should at least stem the blood flow that Stephen might have some left, Jack pressed his fingers over the cut, and this, at least, caused Stephen to awaken, if not at all happily.

His eyes snapped open, looking around wildly, and Jack saw that the sudden movement pained Stephen, so he tried to hold him still. "Stephen," he called, because Stephen did not seem all in his senses. "Stephen!"

"What are you-" Stephen began, startled, and Jack hushed him. As much as he was glad to hear Stephen's voice, he would not like for their captors to hear they were both awake.

"You should lie still, Stephen," Jack said. His legs were turning numb from the weight and the uncomfortable position, but it was bearable if nothing else but to keep Stephen from having to lay his head on the cold floor.

Jack could see that Stephen was frowning, perhaps confused. He could, Jack supposed, have also been hit about the head, though he'd seen no evidence of it. Except that Stephen's gaze seemed to keep slipping away from his, and Jack had seen this many times in those who had been beaten into unconsciousness.

"Are you well?" Jack asked, worried.

"I would be better," Stephen said, his voice tight with pain, "if you would take your hand off of my shoulder, dear."

"It was bleeding rather freely," Jack explained. "I thought it best to try to stop it. It's a rather ugly thing, I'm afraid."

"Ah." Stephen took a deep breath, turning his head towards his shoulder as if he might be able to see the wound. "Then you had better leave it there."

Then, Stephen moved his head again, as though testing something, and said, "I appear to be lying on your legs."

"You are," Jack agreed. "I woke up and there you were." He attempted a smile, but thought it could not have been too convincing because Stephen's frown deepened. With his uninjured arm he reached up, putting cold fingers against Jack's temple.

"You were also wounded, I see."

When Stephen withdrew his hand, Jack could see there was blood on the fingertips. He hadn't felt it.

"I didn't even notice."

"I saw the thugs hit you." Stephen looked angry, almost.

"Thugs," Jack repeated. "I don't know how we came to be here," he admitted. "I had hoped you would remember."

"You don't remember?" Stephen asked. "Lean closer so that I might be able to see what damage the barbarians have done to you, Jack. They must have hit you very hard indeed, to muddle that thick skull of yours."

Jack did as he was instructed, and Stephen tried to stretch closer, but before he could get very far he fell back heavily upon Jack's legs, gasping and clutching at his side.

He said, "Oh."

"What is it, Stephen?" Jack had not had time to check if Stephen had been hurt anywhere else, and now he regretted it very sincerely because Stephen looked even more awful than he had a moment ago.

"Jack, Dear." Stephen's eyes were tightly closed and his voice was strained. "Our situation might be worse than I had feared."

Stephen being very badly injured was the thing Jack had feared the most, for it would make escape a great deal more difficult. Even as they were -with Jack remembering so little and Stephen in such a state- a successful escape that did not lead to their deaths would've been challenge enough, but if there was some serious wound then escape became both all the more imperative and all the more impeded.

"I would beg you to look at the complexion of my skin, here." Stephen spread his hand over his right side.

"I should not like to take my hand from your shoulder. The wound is very deep." Jack's sleeves were red and his hands stained with Stephen's blood.

"Oh," Stephen said again. "I had quite forgotten."

Stephen's head fell to the side, and for a moment he lay still, breathing deeply with his eyes closed. This distracted Stephen, the way he seemed so unfocused, concerned Jack a great deal.

"I can use my neckcloth to bind it," Jack suggested after such a long silence Jack had begun to think Stephen had again fallen asleep.

"Yes, yes," Stephen mumbled without opening his eyes. "A very good idea, Jack. I thank you."

As Jack wound the material around Stephen's shoulder, he tried to think of some way he might escape this prison of stone. The metal bars looked solid, the hinges on the door securely welded. Perhaps the lock-

"I fear you will have to go without me, Jack," Stephen said suddenly. Jack could not see Stephen's face, but he heard guilt in his voice, and he imagined that Stephen knew exactly who had taken them in this way.

"I will not," Jack replied firmly. If there was reason behind imprisonment, if it had some connection to Stephen's _other_ occasional employment, then all the more reason for Jack to stay. He had seen what had become of Stephen before and he did not ever want to see that again. He would not, Jack vowed, allow it to happen again.

"You must tell me what you remember, Stephen," Jack insisted. "I will find a way to get us both out of here."

Stephen had done the same for him enough times.

"Jack-" Stephen sighed wearily, and it sounded like a protest.

"No, Stephen. I will not leave you here and that is the end of it." He tied off the makeshift bandage he had created, frowning as already red had seeped through the white material. "You said I should look at your side."

They were running out of time.

"Yes," Stephen acquiesced. "Yes."

Quickly, Jack undid Stephen's jacket and shirt, pulling aside the layers of material. He had no idea of how long they had until someone came for them, which they inevitably would, and he had no desire to be found undressing his friend when they did.

From the high, open window, some red-orange light was now filtering in and Jack imagined it was dawn.

Uncovering skin, Jack could now see where there Stephen's clothing had been sliced through. There was a long, shallow cut along Stephen's stomach. That, at least, was no longer bleeding, but it looked red and inflamed.

"Now, tell me how we are here," Jack asked again. It seemed like Stephen had become distant, so Jack tapped him on the cheek, calling "Stephen," and again, "Stephen."

"Yes, you have forgotten." Stephen slowly moved his head from side to side as though to clear it, before looking up at Jack. "Your head. Do you have any pain? Nausea?"

"Both, of course," Jack replied irritably. "But it is nothing worse than I have had before. Now _please_ tell me how we came to be here, Stephen."

"It does not indicate good health that you have some loss of memory-," Stephen argued, but at Jack's glare he recounted, "We had made haarbour. Do you recall? I was to leave for- Ah! Jack, please don't press down quite so much."

"Apologies, apologies" Jack mumbled, drawing back. Now the light was a little improved he could see the sweat on Stephen's forehead and something of the sickly pallor of his skin.

"It's nothing," Stephen assured him, even as Jack could feel him shivering, could see him gritting his teeth. "Now, do tell me how it is, dear? I don't think I am able to look myself."

"The light is very poor," Jack said, because all he could see was red and purples and he was not sure what exactly he was supposed to be doing. "But Stephen, these thugs really have beaten you quite badly."

"Yes, regrettably I can feel that to be the truth. Now gently press along the ribs, and against my sides."

"You said not to-"

"_Gently_. I must know if anything is broken."

"Stephen, I really-"

"I was to leave for _the interior_, you understand?" Stephen interrupted. He stared at Jack, almost unblinking until Jack relented and touched his fingers to Stephen's chest. It was cold, and Stephen hissed in pain, but nodded for him to continue.

Jack understood, because he remembered arguing quite forcefully the previous night with Stephen, trying to convince him not to go. He hadn't known when he'd be back, and Jack was loath to think he might have to sail without his physician. Without his _friend_. It was a side of Stephen that Jack did not like to think about; the secret, intelligence, _dangerous_ work he sometimes was commissioned to do. If Jack thought about it, he would admit that mostly he did not like to let Stephen out of his knowledge, because the man always seemed to get into some kind of trouble on his own.

This time, though, it seemed his presence had not prevented Stephen from coming to harm.

Under his careful hands, Stephen twitched and breathed carefully but did not pull away. "All is well, I think," he said, though he did not _sound_ well to Jack. "You may stop." He sounded as relieved as Jack felt, and Jack carefully replaced his clothing, drawing it tight across his body in an attempt to warm him.

"They were hired brutes, I imagine," he told Jack. "But they knew who they were looking for."

By insinuation, Jack knew then that Stephen's work must be what this was about.

"Then why was I-?"

"I do not think they expected you to be so enthusiastic in my defence," Stephen replied, and smiled warmly. "I do thank you." Then though his face fell unhappily. "But now I fear I have placed you in a dangerous position."

"Then it is all the more reason to escape this wretched gaol."

Outside, Jack could hear the sounds of the beginning of the day. And from somewhere close-by he could hear boots on flagstones.

Stephen turned his head to the metal bars of their prison, hearing it too. The expression on his face did not change, but Jack could feel the tension in his body.

When their captors arrived- three grizzled, mean-looking men dressed in old, worn clothes- Jack recognised them as the thugs who had set upon them before. Carefully, he lifted Stephen's back to move him off his legs. Stephen gripped at Jack's sleeve with his good arm.

"Please, Jack," he said in a low voice. "Don't give them opportunity to harm you further."

Jack was rather more concerned with them harming Stephen than him, and he would have said so, except the brutes had unlocked the door and had moved into the cell. One of the men carried a large, well-worn looking club, and Jack imagined that the shape of it would exactly fit the bruise on his scalp.

None of them spoke, and gave Stephen no chance to reason with them -though Jack doubted that would do any good with this type of mercenary- before descending on Stephen, pulling him up and away from Jack as the third man clocked Jack around the head again.

His last thought, before his vision blurred to grey, watching poor Stephen being hauled and dragged away, was that he would be ready next time. He swore, they would not take Stephen from him again.

***

Jack was alone when he awoke.

There was water and stale bread beside the barred door. Rats had already found their way to it.

Touching his hand to his forehead, Jack could feel dried, sticky blood there. His head ached terribly, and he thought of all the odious concoctions Stephen would try to feed them, if they had been back on his ship. He would never allow Stephen to go on shore again, Jack decided.

Standing up was more difficult than he had anticipated. His balance was unsteady, and movement made him want to vomit, and Jack very much did not want to add to the already unpleasant smell of his prison. He used the wall as support, carefully making his way around the cell, testing the strength of the stone, then of the bars, the lock, and the size of the small window which he could barely reach, also barred and half blocked with grass and dirt, making it impossible to see anything of the outside.

The sun was high by the time Jack had completed his inspection of the prison, and he had heard nothing of Stephen, and very little of anything else. The quiet was disconcerting. He had expected cries and shouts and other unthinkable things, but was met with scuffling, the occasional sound of metal clanging against metal, footsteps, doors creaking as they were opened and closed. Jack wasn't sure if this absence of sound was indeed worse.

He refused to contemplate the possibility that Stephen might be dead.

The only companions he had were the rats and the beetles that scuttled across the floor and Jack wondered if Stephen would be interested in them; if he knew their name and their habits and if he'd like to trap one and bring it back to the ship. It was easier to think of this than to think of what might be happening to Stephen, and Jack could do _nothing_ to stop it.

To distract himself, Jack combed every inch of the cell floor for anything that might be of use, or for any hint of where they might be.

Amongst the grass and unclean straw he found a broken handle from a jug, an old, green coin and several shards of pottery that had once perhaps been a bowl. Jack tested their edges and concluded they would be useless as weapons. He would be better off using his fists.

The day wore on, and Jack tried the bars again, looking for weaknesses, pulling and ratting at them, scratching at places where they were badly rusted. They were old, yes, but strong and driven deep into the floor and the stone at the ceiling.

He pushed his face to the bars, trying to see further up and down the corridor beyond. To the right it came to a dead end, and to the left the path led away past at least two more cells, empty, from what he could see. There was a lamp lit somewhere further down, and Jack could just make out the passing shadow of a man, walking to and fro, pausing, sitting. A guard.

Jack considered calling to him, trying to bribe him perhaps, but he had nothing to offer except for the buttons of his coat, but more than that, Jack very much wanted to _kill_ the bastard. For taking him and Stephen, for treating them in this fashion; there was no honour to it at all and Jack would have thought them common criminals or perhaps deserters if they had not have called out Stephen's name in that alley wall in town. Remembering it all now, not clearly, but enough to feel remorse that he had convinced Stephen to go to the tavern with him that evening.

And when Stephen was returned, just as the sun was once again setting, casting long shadows across the wet stone walls and floor, lines of red and orange that might have been fire, Jack knew that he _would_ kill them. And he would not be merciful, for it was clear that they had not been to Stephen.

It was as bad as he had imagined, and worse, because Stephen was silent even though his eyes were open, and he looked at Jack with a familiar, painful hopelessness.

The bruiser with his club waved his weapon at Jack threateningly as his companions unlocked the door and Jack knew better this time than to get within striking distance, as much as he would love to take that club and beat the man to death with it. For Stephen was bleeding from the nose and mouth and ears and his clothes were askew and his eyes and cheeks were mottled with red and purple. Jack could see the impression of fingers around his neck, and he did not like to think what damage was hidden by Stephen's clothing.

They dragged him in without care, dropping Stephen like he was nothing more than a carcass upon the ground, and Jack glared at the three men, memorising their faces so that when he found them- and he would- he would know what damage to do to them.

It made Jack incensed with rage the way they just looked back at him, smiling and careless and altogether too smug as they left the prison, locked the door, spat at Stephen.

Stephen said nothing, nor made any sound, and Jack waited until the thugs were out of sight, their heavy booted steps trailed off into nothing, before going to his friend. He was not sure where he should touch him, not wanting to cause him more pain.

"Stephen," Jack called. "What have they done to you? I heard nothing."

Stephen coughed and pushed himself weakly onto his side, looking up at Jack. His left eye was beginning to swell.

"I said nothing," Stephen said. His voice was hoarse, small, and Jack hurried over to where he had stored the cup of water, covering it with the pieces of broken pottery to keep the rats and insects out.

Gently, Jack slid an arm around Stephen's back and shoulders, lifting him up so that he could sip from the cup. Stephen flinched when Jack held him and when he bent his neck forward, but there was bliss in his eyes as he drank in careful, slow sips. "It is quite depressing," he said when he had half-emptied the cup, "that this sort of thing has become familiar to me. It's all the same, what they want."

This was not something Jack wanted very much to hear. "Then you must desist knowing things that others are willing to beat out of you to hear," Jack told him sternly, and was glad when Stephen smiled, a small thing but alive and cognisant and not so broken at all. His Stephen was strong, Jack had always known that, incredibly so. He'd survived so much, and he would survive this, of that Jack was sure.

"I do apologise," Stephen teased. "Next time I shall endeavour to forget, as you have."

"There shall not be another time," Jack frowned. "I will not have it."

Stephen sighed, and it was a painful thing to hear. "I'm afraid you don't have much choice, Jack."

"We will escape this place. I will not have them doing any more of this to you."

Jack laid Stephen's head upon his folded knees, took off his jacket and spread it over Stephen's body. He was shivering.

"It is not the cold," Stephen told him. "It is just the shock wrought upon the body. I have seen it-"

"Lie still," Jack interrupted, knowing it was a dangerous thing to argue with Stephen over any matter pertaining to physic, but hoping that his bloody-mindedness and Stephen's fatigue would allow him to have his way.

For a long moment Stephen was quiet, and Jack thought it entirely possible that his friend was plotting some convincing lecture in his mind, for it was not like him to concede a point so easily. Jack took the opportunity to wipe the blood from his nose with the sleeve of his shirt, and from his ears. He moved to push aside the loose fabric of the neckcloth which had thankfully remained wrapped around Stephen's shoulder but then Stephen said, "There is no need to look. Just tighten the bandage."

Jack noticed then that Stephen held his arm stiffly at his side, the fingers of his hand curled so tightly into a fist that his skin was white.

"Is it broken?" Jack asked, and was careful not to jostle Stephen.

Stephen replied, "No," and closed his eyes. "There are no bones broken, today."

"Today," Jack repeated. "Stephen. I won't have this. What have they done? What is it they want?"

Despite Stephen's protest and his attempts to pull away, it was frighteningly easy to hold the man down and look at the wound.

It was bleeding again, and Jack could see the imprints of fingertips on Stephen's skin, painted in blood and bruises, drawn across the edges of the cut. The sight of it, the _thought_ of it, stirred such abject horror and rage in Jack that he thought he would shout and swear and tear the very bars from the damned wall.

For Stephen's sake, though, he kept still, and buried his rage, and asked, "Why did they do this?"

"Because I would say nothing," Stephen replied, sounding entirely too calm about the whole thing.

"What do they want to know?"

And Stephen smiled at that. "That I would tell you even less than them."

At Jack's offended look, Stephen added, "Because I would not like to give them an excuse to do this to you. Not you, Jack."

So useless. Jack felt just so useless.

He put his arms around Stephen, pulling him carefully closer, moving them both into the shadows of the darkest, most hidden corner. He could, at least, do this much. Stephen did not protest the move, and the tremors which ran through him did seem to subside after a while.

Jack could think of nothing to say, so he let Stephen sleep, and it was only then that he realised he had not slept in a very long time also. His eyes were heavy with fatigue, and his stomach was empty and hungry. His throat felt dry, but he was saving the remaining water for Stephen and would not drink more than a few sips. It would have been an easy thing, he thought, to fall to sleep as well. To let himself rest. But he had to think, and he would not be caught unawares by their captors again, and so Jack remained awake the whole night through, not letting go of Stephen.

***

Thinking on it, on how he might escape without knowledge of his location, nor of the enemies involved, Jack conceded that to attempt to fight their way out without knowing _anything_ would be, at best, ill-advised. At worst, suicidal.

He had questions for Stephen, but was loathe to wake him up, his thin frame completely limp and trusting in his arms. But as the sun began to rise again Jack knew he had little time to ask them and, reluctantly, shook Stephen's good shoulder in an attempt to rouse him.

Leaning close to Stephen's ear he called, quietly, "Stephen. I am very sorry to have to wake you, but I must ask you about this place."

In the pale morning light and the shadows of the gaol, Jack could see Stephen blinking blearily up at him. He watched as his friend looked to the ceiling, turned his head to the wall, as though he had forgotten where they were, his eyes unfocused.

Jack laid his hand on Stephen's forehead, afraid some fever had set in, but Stephen's skin was cold to the touch. Stephen tilted his head upwards, as though to press closer into Jack's hand. Perhaps for the warmth of it, Jack thought, though it had been a cool night and he was feeling chilled himself and knew his hand couldn't be all that warmer than Stephen's own skin.

Closing his eyes for a long moment, Stephen spoke quietly, "I had hoped this was not real, that it was a nightmare or a..."

Stephen's voice trailed off, and Jack's mind supplied, "Or a memory."

He could think of no comforting words, nor did he expect that Stephen would appreciate them. His friend was proud.

Instead he offered, "I saw a great many very particular beetles scuttling about the place, yesterday."

"Oh?" Stephen asked, and Jack could almost be amused by the way Stephen instantly seemed more awake; more alert.

"Large creatures," Jack said. "With great purple antlers. Quite something to see."

"_Eleutherata_. Yes, I should like to study one."

Stephen looked away to the corners of the room. Hoping to see one of his beasts, Jack thought.

"I will catch one for you," Jack promised, even though the prospect was not an entirely happy one. Their horns look vicious, and who could tell if they were poisonous or not?

But it was worth it when Stephen smiled a little and turned back to look at Jack. "I would be most indebted. Most happy," he said, and Jack could not help but smile in return. It gave him great hope, even though Stephen seemed to have so little strength, and slumped back against Jack's knees soon after, his eyes again sliding closed.

"And so you shall have your insect." Lightly, Jack patted Stephen's cheek. "But you must tell me," he said, "What this place is. What reason these men have for bringing us here?"

Stephen was not inclined to answer, and kept his eyes shut as Jack persisted, "Could you discern where we are, when they took you out?"

Another three times asking, and finally Stephen replied, "Yes, Jack. Yes, I think I know where we are. Now please, let me rest a while. They will return-"

"I won't let them take you," Jack said.

"You will." Stephen looked at Jack with more focus, perhaps also anger, and at least, Jack thought, his friend was more awake now. More aware. Even if that did, in some way, seem almost cruel. "Jack, you will allow it. You will not do anything _rash_. Promise me."

"I will promise no such thing." Jack patted Stephen's good shoulder. "Now, where are we? How many guards did you see out there?"

For a long moment Stephen just stared at Jack, his eyes narrowed, and Jack thought he was not going to answer, but then he said, "We are in what used to be a castle, of sorts, above the town."

"I thought it was a ruin."

"It is. The lower levels, it seems, are better preserved than we had believed." Stephen's head fell to the side to look at the damp, crumbling wall. "Somewhat preserved."

Jack's hope rose. "Then we are still close to the port." He looked over Stephen. "I can carry you. How many of them are there?"

"That I saw, the three thugs, another four guards at least, and two... others."

He had, Jack reflected, had worse odds. Speed and surprise would be their greatest assets. "Do you think you can guide us out directly?"

"Yes," Stephen sighed, "But Jack, it would be impossible to-"

And then, the sound of heavy boot steps and Jack looked up and saw that the sun had arisen whilst they spoke. Holding Stephen more closely, Jack said, "When they come, I will fight them."

He had made a promise he would allow no more harm to come to Stephen and he meant to keep it, even if it meant his death. He would not sit here any longer. It was neither his nature nor his will.

"Jack." Stephen shook his head. "Wait. Rest today. Allow me time to find out more-"

"It isn't _you_ who shall be finding out more," Jack retorted angrily.

When Stephen spoke again it was in a low voice, fast and dangerous. "You don't believe I can hold my tongue?"

"I do, Stephen," Jack assured Stephen earnestly, and he did because he _knew_ Stephen. "But I do not want you to _have_ to."

The footsteps were louder now, and long shadows, elongated shapes of men, stretched across the walls of the corridor, arching over the dark ceiling.

"The way from here to the town is open land," Stephen told Jack. "We would never be able to arrive safely, without detection, during the day. Wait until I return."

"When you return-"

"I have had far worse," Stephen argued. "I will endure."

"That's rather not the point. I promised-"

"And we shall escape. Sleep. I must be sure of the way."

It was agonising to concede, and went against everything Jack believed, every instinct he had, but Stephen reached up a hand to touch his cheek and his hair and Jack could not deny him anything.

When they came, those three brutes, more confident and even more careless with Stephen than they had been the night before, they pulled Stephen from him, beating Jack back with the club. It struck his back and his stomach and Jack would have struck back if Stephen had not called, "Jack," and "Stop!" The thugs used Jack's moment of hesitation to beat at his back again before retreating out of the prison. The clinking as the door shut echoed, and to Jack it sounded like failure and betrayal. But as he watched Stephen taken away, hauled by the arms and barely able to get his feet under him to walk more than a few steps, Jack saw that Stephen was almost-smiling back at him.

***

They did not return with Stephen that night.

It was one thing for Stephen to tell Jack to rest, and quite another for him to actually manage it. Jack was restless, unused to the enforced incarceration. He was accustomed to small spaces, to long stretches of inaction, but there was always something to be done at Sea. And then there was always Stephen, and his absence was the worst thing of all.

Jack could not help but think on what might be happening to his friend, and in his mind he could imagine many terrible things.

A guard he had not seen before brought fresh water and bread, and this time Jack drank and ate and watched, pressed up against the bars, to see where the guard went. He turned right some thirty-five steps away. Jack could see his movements reflected in lamplight. A slight man, carrying only an old rusted sword and a nervous look, Jack thought he would be quite easy to overcome.

As the sun set again, Jack took to pacing the width of the cell, readying himself, stretching the muscles in his legs and shoulders, for he would have to carry Stephen some distance, and fight too. It warmed him too, for two days in the damp, cold room had left Jack chilled to the bone.

And still they did not bring Stephen.

Jack watched the shadows, listened for any indication of movement. The guard changed twice, and at the change Jack could hear them speaking in whispers. It was not in English, and it was too hushed, and Jack could understand nothing of what was said.

It was not a difficult thing to admit that Jack was worried.

There was barely any sound at all throughout the night, except for the quiet snoring of the guard, some scuffling which Jack took to be rats, and nothing more.

Jack couldn't sit, couldn't rest, not when Stephen was undergoing who-knew-what tortures. The thought fortified his resolution that when they brought Stephen back, it would be the last time. Some cold, ruthless part of him gleefully anticipated wrapping his hands around the bastards' necks and squeezing the life out of them.

It had to be long past midnight when Jack finally heard something of Stephen, and whilst it was almost a relief to know he was still living, at least, it was the very last way he wanted to find out.

A door opened, scraping loudly against stone, and Jack could hear commotion, shouts in what sounded like Spanish, scuffling like a fight and metal clanging to the ground. Jack saw the shadow of the guard hurrying away and taking the lantern with him because then he was plunged into almost complete darkness. Without sight, Jack felt his way along the walls, the brick slimy under his fingers, to the bars, trying to see something, straining to hear or make out words.

He was sure, then, that he heard Stephen, calling out in French and in Spanish and he sounded enraged and Jack imagined he was swearing at his captors, cursing them and fighting them. Straining against the bars, Jack ached to help his friend, and sincerely hoped that whatever had been done to him had not driven him mad.

The sound cut off suddenly as the door slammed closed, and Jack was left in the darkness and the silence, fingers clinging tightly to the cold, rough metal bars of his prison.

They had been missing for two days now, and their disappearance would surely have been noticed. It was of no use though, Jack knew, relying on others to come to their aid. There would be little or no evidence of where they had been taken. Jack was sure, these were men well-versed in their brutality and in abduction and would not be easily found. And Stephen did not have the time to spare.

It was not until much, much later that the guard with the lantern returned, bringing with him some light. Even though it must have been quite dim, to Jack- who had been in thick, pitch black for some hours- the light was almost blinding. The guard did not bring Stephen with him, and Jack listened as he sat down and promptly fell asleep.

It felt like, Jack thought, the longest night of his life. Waiting. All he could was wait, and hope, and remain ready, standing now against the wall where it met the bars. As soon as the thugs brought Stephen he would take them. He considered hundreds of ways; tackling their legs, going for their throats or eyes, or pulling them by the hair. First, he could remove the largest brute, snatch his club from him and beat the bastard with it so that he might learn for himself what it felt like. It was impossible to know how helpful Stephen would be, but Jack trusted him to keep himself alive for the short time Jack needed, for if he had not overcome their captors quickly then he would not overcome them at all. It was not, though, Jack's nature to anticipate defeat.

When Stephen was finally returned, the sun was long up, and it might have been a strange blessing because as worked-over and bloodied as Stephen appeared, his tormentors also looked grey and fatigued and altogether miserable. Only two, today, but one at least was the bruiser with the club, and Jack was _glad_. There was, Jack saw, some satisfaction on Stephen's battered face, and in that moment their eyes met, and Jack curled his hands into tight fists.

Jack stayed with his back against the wall as the thugs unlocked the door, the taller of them brandishing his club at Jack and making threatening noises, words Jack recognised as insults and curses in Spanish. Stephen appeared to be a dead-weight between them, so that they both had to hold him up, hands tight around his arms as they pulled him into the cell.

In that moment, Jack used their distraction with Stephen to rush forward, wrapping his fingers tightly around the larger man's hand where he held the club. His other hand pressed over the thug's mouth to keep him silent, Jack twisted their joined hands sharply until he heard a snapping sound; the wrist breaking and his opponent let out a muffled scream. His fingers now lax, Jack took the club from him easily and swung it forcefully at the man's head, twice in quick succession. There was a loud crack, but nothing more. All things considered, Jack would have liked to have taken his time, but a quick death was a quiet one, and the man fell heavily to the ground, unmoving.

Looking up, club gripped tightly in his hands and ready to strike, Jack saw that Stephen was leaning against the bars, panting. The other captor lay at his feet, eyes still opened, wide in surprise and blood pouring from his throat. Stephen held a knife.

"Took it from them," he explained, titling his head back towards the corridor, and Jack supposed he meant his torturers somewhere beyond the cell, wherever it was they had taken Stephen, rather than the thugs. He should like to have known how, for it was an incredible feat, but they had very little time before the guard at the end of the corridor- his silhouetted form visible and unmoving in the lamplight- noticed something was amiss. "It was just as well," Stephen whispered. He pointed at the man at his feet. "He would have raised the alarm whilst you wrestled with that ogre."

Jack had to admit, it hadn't been his best plan, but he had had no other options, and it had worked in the end. "I was confident," Jack said, "you would stop him."

It was only a partial lie, and it made Stephen's lips curl up into a small smile, so Jack decided to thank God that fortune had favoured them and ignore the could-have-beens.

"Can you walk?" Jack asked. He took the keys from where they hung in the lock before moving to Stephen's side.

Stephen did not look at all certain. "I shall try," he said, and attempted to stand up without the support of the bars. "You should take the knife," he offered, but Jack shook his head.

"No, no. I will club them." He tested the weight of the weapon in his hands, heavy but balanced. A cruel, barbarous weapon, but not something that Stephen could carry in his current condition. Jack did not like to think of Stephen unarmed. "Which way should we go?" Jack asked.

Stephen hesitated for a moment, turning his head to look at the high window, then back to Jack. "It would be foolishness to try and traverse the distance between here and the port town in this light. We should hide."

Jack opened his mouth to argue, because he would not wait any longer. He wanted to get away from this place. He wanted to get _Stephen_ away from this place, to familiar faces and food and rest.

"Please, Jack. No arguments. Turn right at the end of this corridor. There is a guard there, though I'm sure you know this. Now go."

There was no question that Jack did not trust Stephen's judgement, and with so little time and so little knowledge of his own to rely on Jack acquiesced, nodding in agreement.

Stepping out of the prison, crossing over the threshold to what had been his cage for the previous two days, Jack felt a sense of elation, joyful freedom, and a very strong desire for _vengeance_.

With one look back to ensure Stephen was following, Jack strode down the corridor, purposeful, hoping that the guard would not suspect too soon that he and Stephen were not who they were supposed to be.

To his end, he didn't.

***

Stephen had brought them to a belfry, of sorts, without a bell.

Not a watchtower, he'd been assured, and the steps were half broken up and thick with dust so Jack supposed they were somewhat safe. The way up had posed an arduous task for Stephen, and Jack had all but carried him towards the end. But no matter how infrequently the tower was climbed, Jack still felt trapped. They had no alternative escape route, lest they jump over the side, and the half-covered well in which they sat felt exposed. It did, at least, give Jack an excellent view of the surrounding land, and in the distance he saw the town, and beyond it the sea and longed to be there upon it. It was no small distance, and from the almost grey colour of Stephen's face, and the way he legs shook as he'd climbed, Jack imagined he would have to carry Stephen for most of it.

It was mid-afternoon and the sun was warm and dry, and after being kept underground Jack was glad for it, even if the glare hurt his eyes. He was grateful, too, for the rest. It had been a long time since he'd slept for any great length of time, and Jack could feel every bruise and ache, stretched and uncomfortable. There was no doubt though that it was a thousand times worse for Stephen.

"How did you know this place could be here?" Jack asked, curious. They spoke in quiet voices, mindful of their captors running about the floors below. He held Stephen close against his side, preferring his friend to lean against him rather than the stone walls.

"You're really very comfortable," Stephen said, willingly laying his head on Jack's shoulder. "It's all this weight. I never thought I should appreciate it so much."

Jack could think of no response to that, so he satisfied himself with tightening the bandage around Stephen's arm. It was woefully stained, but it would have to do for a few more hours. Stephen flinched now whenever he touched his arm, no matter how careful he was. Jack suspected it was broken, but said nothing.

"The castles of this area are all of alike," Stephen explained. "And always left to ruin. I surmised it would be the best place to stow ourselves for the duration of the day." Taking a deep breath, Stephen shivered as though cold, and Jack wondered if he should give his friend his coat, or if Stephen would be too proud. "They will think we made away for the town, and will search there. I don't believe they would suspect we would hide ourselves deeper in the castle, and in such an indefensible place."

Jack was not sure he believed they had either.

From within the castle- or rather, what was left of it, for it was half-ruin after all- Jack could hear shouts and calls, boots against stone, and every time the sound drew near he was convinced they were going to be found. He kept the club in his free hand, and made Stephen do the same with his knife.

"Will you tell me how you managed to spirit that knife away?" he asked after a long silence. They should be resting, he knew, but both were too awake from fear of discovery and the labours of their ordeal.

"I... you could say, I started a fight. I broke free from them, and was able to hit that third brute over the head with a chair. That is the reason he did not join us this morning."

"Ah!" Jack looked at Stephen wonderingly. "The commotion! That was you? I was... I heard guards running about like wild chickens!"

"In the commotion, I took the knife, and hid it." He looked down at his arm, and Jack supposed that had been his punishment.

"It was worth it," Stephen said.

Jack knew better than to ask what their captors had wanted from Stephen, but it was of concern that they had known where to find Stephen. Had known who he was.

"Will you tell me, at least, who these men were?" Jack asked, and Stephen shook his head.

"I am sorry, my dear, but I will not."

Jack nodded in understanding, even if he did not like it.

"How many more of those thugs do you think there are?" he asked instead.

"No more than twenty," Stephen replied. "Any more would arouse suspicion. Provisions are needed. Fire."

Twenty, Jack thought, was more than enough. Stephen had told him, though, that he knew of several paths they could try. The castle was in partial ruins, but it was also vast, sprawling over a hillside and overgrown in parts. It was too much for so few men to patrol effectively, and should be relatively easy to escape unnoticed. From there, Jack would not take the path, but rather would stay close to the tree line and pick his way down the hillside.

Settling himself more comfortably, Jack pulled Stephen closer; an offer of rest and warmth and companionship. Jack never really stopped to think how easy it was, with Stephen, to be this way. To understand each other without speaking. To trust so very easily and so completely. Beside him, Stephen had closed his eyes. Jack let him sleep, determined again to keep watch over his friend. To give him some relief from the pain he must be in; his face swollen and sallow, his breaths short like it hurt to breathe. When he had looked, earlier, Stephen's shoulder had been a mess of blood and decay. Jack trusted, however, that Stephen would set himself right once they were free of this place. He was the most extraordinary physician Jack had ever met, and a small thing like a knife wound would surely be no great trouble to heal.

Jack let Stephen sleep through the afternoon as he watched men come and go from the castle. From their perch, Jack could see them searching the bushes and the hedges with their rusty swords and with long, old-fashioned pikes, running along the path towards the town and back again and looking more enraged every time.

Stephen did not awaken when an argument, loud and angry-sounding, broke out somewhere within the castle. Too close for Jack's comfort, but the noise dissipated after a time, and the search continued, with much less enthusiasm than before, until the sun set.

Jack let Stephen sleep as the sky turned from orange to pink to red, and as the lamps were lit. The passageway down, a narrow, partially-broken thing, seemed a lot more dangerous and a lot less like a sound idea now that the sky had turned to a dark blue. There was barely any light at all in the stairwell, and it was not something Jack had considered. By touch he could navigate his way safely, he was confident, but Stephen was unsteady on his feet and tired easily. Finally, then, he would have to awaken Stephen, before the sun set fully and the staircase became pitch black.

He called, quietly, "Stephen," and ran a hand down his friend's back. "We must go."

Jack could just make out Stephen's eyes, blinking. Slowly, Stephen sat himself upright, grimacing, and Jack imagined that his neck must ache from sleeping at such an odd angle.

"It's early," Stephen said, his voice dry. He coughed, straining to remain quiet.

"The staircase will be too dark if we leave it any longer." Jack stood, slowly after so long seated on cold ground, and helped Stephen to his feet. "It would be the very worst if we had come this far only to fall to our deaths down some old stairs."

Stephen nodded and smiled. "Yes. Yes, it would."

As he stood, Stephen swayed and looked terribly fragile, and Jack wished he could offer to carry Stephen down, but he needed to be ready to fight. Taking the knife from Stephen's hand, Jack held on to Stephen's arm. "Keep a hand on my shoulder," Jack said. "There- yes, like that. And use the other to steady yourself on the wall."

This way he could lead Stephen, as well as act as though he were a crutch, and he would know that Stephen was still there. Still close.

The descent was as difficult and precarious as Jack had expected, made even more so because they had to remain as silent as possible. The further they went, the louder the voices of their enemies became, but it was difficult to discern if they were near or far, coming or going. The voices were hushed and impossible to understand. Behind him, Jack could feel Stephen's weight grow heavier and heavier as he leaned on Jack more and more. But they were careful, and Jack proceeded slowly, letting his hand guide him more than his eyes, and eventually, _finally_ they came to the bottom step where Stephen stumbled, falling against Jack's back and holding on for a moment, catching his breath.

It was almost impossible to see anything at all at the base of the rounded stairwell, so Jack took Stephen's hand, silently asking him to point the way. He indicated left, so Jack placed Stephen's hand back on his shoulder and veered left, knife and hand outstretched, trying to find the wall. Every step he took carefully, afraid to trip and fall over some debris or uneven stone or who-knew-what else.

Stephen steered him up a short flight of stairs, along a balcony from which Jack could see lantern light below and three men eating and drinking sullenly. He crouched low and held on to Stephen's wrist.

They turned a corner, left, right, through an empty room that smelled of rotting meat and Jack wondered at how Stephen could know where he was going in this maze. There were doors and stairwell leading this way and that, and without Stephen Jack thought he would be completely at a loss.

Then, they slid through an archway that once would have housed a door and they were outside, into the night. Across from them stood the empty courtyard, beyond it the outer wall. Jack felt more than saw Stephen looking behind them, ahead of them, and Jack supposed he was looking for a way other than the main gate through which to escape, but the castle outer wall was intact. Too high to climb. Huddled together, they stayed for a long while beside the archway, waiting to see if anyone came through the gate.

There were no lanterns, and the light of the moon was little more than dull shadows, and after a time- with Stephen's shivering and the way he held on to Jack's arm increasingly tightly heavy in his mind- Jack decided they should take the risk to traverse the courtyard.

Silently pulling Stephen to his feet, he came willingly but heavily, and it was with some difficulty that Jack got them moving, inching over open ground. He felt exposed and blinded, scanning the area for any sign of light approaching and listening for any sound. There was only feel, and Stephen's cold hand in his, and as they neared the gate Jack saw a gatehouse and cursed silently.

There was no lantern, but he could make out the barest hint of movement; a hidden guard, and Jack would slit his damned throat.

He led Stephen to the side, pushed him down to the ground so that he was sitting with his back against the outer wall, hopefully hidden. It would never have been Jack's choice to leave Stephen behind, but there were no other options. He could not even explain, so Jack touched Stephen's face, and rubbed warmth back into his hands, and tapped his knee with the flat of the knife, pointing towards the guardhouse. Stephen took Jack's hand and placed it on his cheek and nodded; he understood.

Memorising where Stephen was, Jack looked back, but could barely see his friend at all, which was a good thing. Hidden. Perhaps safe. And silently, Jack approached the small hut, listening for movement until he stood beside the doorway.  
  
It was an easy thing.

Picking up a heavy stone, Jack dropped it to the floor, and it was enough to entice the guard outside, where Jack grabbed him by the hair and cut straight through his neck, feeling the warm wetness of blood thick against his hands. Jack waited as his body spasmed and twitched and finally crumpled, Jack laying the now corpse carefully inside the hut, mindful of noise.

He wiped his hands on the guard's jacket and took his sword. The blade was dull to the touch, but would be enough, and Jack would leave Stephen alone no longer than he already had.

One hand flat against the wood of the guardhouse, connecting to the castle wall, led Jack back to Stephen. His friend was so well hidden that Jack almost tripped over him, except Stephen caught his leg and squeezed in welcome and possibly in relief.

As much as he tried, and as tightly as Stephen held on to Jack's shoulders, his legs would no longer hold him up, so Jack had Stephen climb onto his back, one arm tight around Jack's shoulders as the other hung useless at Stephen's side. It was perhaps a better way, because like this Jack could run, and he did. Still careful and as lightly as he could carrying another man, skirting back around the wall once they were on the other side of it, avoiding the pathways, but still _free_.

It was both relief and elation and it spurred Jack on. Stephen was heavy on his back, and the old sword banged against his calf with every step, but they had escaped undetected and in no worse condition than they had been before. Both of them, together. Stephen's weight was a _good_ weight.

They did not speak for a long time, until Jack was far down the hillside, the castle a shadow behind them and the town a sea of dots of light ahead of them.

"We escaped," Stephen breathed, as though he could not quite believe it. He had leaned his head forward, and his lips were close to Jack's ear as he spoke. Jack felt the warmth of Stephen's breath and heard the joy in his voice, and he held Stephen more tightly, not pausing for a moment because if he did Jack wasn't sure he would be able to start again.

He was tired beyond anything, and his back and his legs ached and protested every movement, but Jack smiled, and told Stephen honestly, "I did not doubt we would."

**.End.**

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [](https://cienna.livejournal.com/profile)[cienna](https://cienna.livejournal.com/) for the beta, and to [](https://miki-moo.livejournal.com/profile)[miki_moo](https://miki-moo.livejournal.com/) for support.
> 
> Also, do you know how hard it is to research the early nineteenth century Linnaean taxonomy of beetles? No? Well I do.


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